Apology Not Accepted
by Janayea
Summary: "No one could be that clever." "You could."


_"No one could be that clever."_  
John's voice caught in his throat as he replied, _"You could."_

Even now, after he had finally accepted his best friend's death, those words rang through his head like a church bell on Sunday mornings.  
"It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." John whispered to himself.  
He thought those words _meant _something. Hard as he tried, however, he could not think.

When Sherlock had first 'died', John had believed none of it. He must have faked it. He _must_ have.

And now, as he dwelled upon those words some more, he thought of something.  
"Had his _death_ been a magic trick?" he wondered, out loud. The more his mind focused on it, the more he believed it. It had been a message. A clear warning.

But why?  
This is what concerned John the most. If he had faked his death, _why _did Sherlock just run off? Not said an explanation, nothing. He was gone.  
John knew that Moriarty had been there, with Sherlock, but what the _hell_ had gone on on the rooftop that had made Sherlock have to fake his death?

It was all very confusing, and John was frustrated. He stared at the hat on the desk he sat at, and smiled a bit sadly. He picked it up, and flipped it around, just as Sherlock had, and laid it down carefully on the desk.

He looked around. The room was very empty.

But then, he got a single text. His phone vibrated once, just once, which was abnormal, but he shrugged it off.

_Keep thinking._

was the message he had received.

"Keep thinking?" John was confused.

And just then, the door burst open, and standing there was the man he had longed to see the most. Sherlock Holmes. He felt a mix of emotions swell up in him.

"John." his voice was quiet, strained.

"Sherlock."

and in that moment, John realized that as much as he was excited, happy, and eager to embrace the man in his arms and forgive him for everything, to laugh with him and to solve cases with him again, he knew he could not. Because in that moment, John was furious. Sherlock could see this, and his face fell immediately.

* * *

**John Watson's Point of View**

* * *

I stood and walked to the window.

My eyes were staring out into Baker Street as I could hear Sherlock's voice reassuring everything would be alright. I wouldn't dare look at him … I couldn't.

"I did it to protect you!" Sherlock cried, with a sense of emotion that was a very rare occurrence. "

"3 years, Sherlock." I said bitterly, finally turning my head to look at him, his pupils dilated and his face pale.

"Don't you understand? You would have been killed! I couldn't have lived to face the fact that you were no longer my flatmate, or that I'd never see your face again. Only would I be able to gaze at a tombstone with your bloody name on it."

"Hold on!" I cried, jumping to my feet, feeling slightly stronger than I'd felt in years, "You couldn't have faced the fact? I couldn't face the fact that you were dead! You're forgetting that I lived 3 years believing you were dead, and I spent my time staring at a tombstone, with your name on it!"

"But I'm not dead!" Sherlock kept repeating, slamming his hands on the nearby table, making me jump slightly.  
"I thought you were! 3 years you were gone, life wasn't the same …" I said, feeling my leg give way and my left hand began to tremble again, so I sat down in my chair, looking very displeased.

"Life wasn't the same for me, either. You don't know how much I wanted to come back sooner, but I had to stay away until the right moment, and now I'm here, it's like all those years had gone to waste because you won't even look at me properly." Sherlock said, trying to catch my glance but I kept looking away.

"I don't know what you're talking about." I said, glancing out into the window again.

"It's over now, John. We can go back to the ways we once were."  
"Oh sure, forget my trauma for years, my meetings with my therapist. How can you expect me to forget what I saw at St. Bartholomew hospital? You were dead, your head was covered in blood, I kept trying to grab your hand, I prayed for you! I thought you could cheat death!"

I could feel my eyes grow misty, and was on the verge of standing up, but this would make the situation far more awkward than it already was.

"And didn't I?"

"Well … yeah, but … I sat at your grave for days upon end, hoping to see at least a small sign that you were still alive!" I retorted, trying to be reasonably angry and not tear up.  
"John, this is merely a small setback from all the memories we've shared as … friends. I could still remember the time you tackled me after punching me in the face, because I asked for it and you said-"  
"I had bad days..." I whispered.  
"Exactly!"

But I couldn't handle it. I pointed to the door, and said simply, "Just get out, Sherlock.."

The look of pain on his face wanted me to take it back, beg for him to stay, but I knew I couldn't.

His shoulders fell and his blue eyes were cloudy.

The last words I heard before the door slamming shut were a whispered, "I'm sorry."


End file.
